


Born With A Weak Heart

by solonggaybowser



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Anxiety, Friendship, Gen, Gender Dysphoria, Implied/Referenced Misogyny, Implied/Referenced Transphobia, Internalized Transphobia, Mostly Canon Compliant, Pre-Canon, Swearing, Trans Male Harry Hart, Transitioning, basically no violence, no homophobia cuz i'm stressed enough dealing with those other fun warnings, rated mature for exactly one (1) chapter with implied sexual content, young harry is a nervous disaster but gets better... or starts to, young merlin has no chill
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-11
Updated: 2019-03-07
Packaged: 2019-10-02 20:10:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17270309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solonggaybowser/pseuds/solonggaybowser
Summary: With the current Galahad set to retire in the coming months, Kingsman as per usual brings in a batch of promising young candidates, in the hopes of honing one into a worthy successor. Among them are Hamish Malcolm and a man who goes only by Hart, both extraordinarily talented yet shunned by their peers—the former for being an abrasive prick, the latter for being deviant.Naturally, they become friends. (Kind of. More or less. If Hart would truly allow it.)





	1. Say About It, I

**Author's Note:**

> a few things before we start
> 
>   * when applicable, pre-chapter notes will have more specific content warnings than the additional tags do
>   * i'm extremely american
>   * fic and chapter titles are from ["This Must Be The Place (Naive Melody)"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fsccjsW8bSY) by Talking Heads 
>   * this fic isn't _strictly_ about harry being transgender, but i'd still feel remiss if i didn't say that this depiction of being trans does _not_ represent the experience of every trans person, everywhere, ever. mostly it represents just mine
> 


_"So, I'm really in? Just like that?" he asked Arthur._

_"In consideration," she replied. Perfectly composed, as usual._

_"Yes, of course, but... no applications? No interviews, no... evaluations?"_

_"It's already been taken care of. Suffice it to say that we've been keeping files. If you'd like, you can consider your little pub scuffle your interview."_

_"I see."_

_The low hum of the train speeding through the tube filled the silence between them._

_Until he said, "I want to be a man. Does your file say that?"_

_Silence again._

_"It would certainly connect a number of dots," she conceded._

_"Can Kingsman make it happen?"_

_Silence again. Maybe he imagined the shade of disappointment over Arthur's face. Maybe he didn't. He turned away, bracing himself._

_It came as a bit of a surprise that she said, "Yes, we'll do our best."_

* * *

"Are you going to just _stand_ there and _watch_ all my hair fall out," the Scotsman grouched, not bothering to turn around, "or are you gonna keep walking?"

Hart regarded him, unmoved. He had been headed to his usual solitary corner of the dining hall but stopped in his tracks just as he passed the man seated at his own table. _Malcolm_ might be his name.

Malcolm's dark hair fell just below his chin while he was leaning over a book on, if the other titles scattered about him were any indication, system administration. His foul temper meant that he too would sit alone. Today, though, Hart needed to speak with him, nerves and clammy hands be damned.

"Actually," Hart said, going to the other side of the table, "would you mind terribly if I sat with you?"

Malcolm kept his expression blank, controlled, yet Hart could read the surprise in how his eyes snapped to the other man as soon as he began speaking, how he hesitated for a beat, then another, then another before responding, "Suit yourself."

Sitting down, Hart went on, "I just wanted to thank you," while he still had Malcolm's undivided attention.

The bafflement now revealed itself on his face. "What the hell for?"

"For earlier today." Hart folded his hands neatly in front of him. "Talking some sense into that agent."

Upon the word "sense", Malcolm snorted. "Exquisitely diplomatic of you. Well done. You know, no one's ever thanked me for my furious diatribes before."

"He had some gall saying that shit... _Someone_ had to tell him off."

Two weeks with Kingsman had seen Hart take two injections of testosterone and his performance in the field come to improve twofold. It was too early for any observable physiological change, but that hadn't stopped the agent in question from citing Hart as conclusive evidence of man's physical superiority over woman. And if he could have just said a word in protest...

As it happened, Malcolm could and did, and _many_ words at that. On sample sizes, on reproducibility, on confounding variables, on "common fucking sense". All shockingly articulate for someone so angry.

There was none of that anger when Malcolm looked upon Hart now. There was a hard skepticism, yes, but no anger.

"I... know it should have been me," continued Hart, in spite of his own too-high voice grating on his ears, "given it was my—well, not my _fault_. But it was my _concern_. Have you ever been so outraged, you simply could not speak?"

"No. Never," Malcolm replied flatly—then he laughed, good-natured, at himself. He asked, "Your name's Hart?"

"Yes." No mention of that loathsome name that was infuriatingly kept on file. Good. "Malcolm, right?"

"Aye. Hamish Malcolm. Either will do; I find both equally distasteful." He paused in his speech, in the manner that suggested some imminent follow-up for which it would be polite to remain silent.

Instead he extended a hand.

Hart eyed it uncertainly. Malcolm was, he had by now deduced, no discernible threat; his palms yet remained damp, no means of surreptitiously wiping away the sweat... There must be—

"What?" Malcolm interjected, "You think I can't handle a little sweat on a man?" He stood enough to take Hart's hand and shake it, whispering with an air of something like conspiracy, "Can't blame you, putting up with these spineless tossers."

Malcolm sat down, leaving Hart to stare at his hand. It was his turn, apparently, to be caught off guard. He nodded and said, rather thickly, "Yes. Thank you."


	2. Say About It, II

Hart spent his leisure time alone and he _liked_ it, thank you very much.

The grounds of the Kingsman manor stretched out far enough that outside, being alone was easy, even as he and his little dog Mr. Pickle walked down a paved path. Well—true, he was surely being monitored no matter where he went, but to be physically removed from everyone else was enough for him to relax a bit. And when so much of his life was spent on edge, he took every bit of relaxation he could get.

A sudden noise in the distance had Hart back on his guard. He listened carefully, preparing to make himself scarce at a moment's notice. It was a voice: he couldn't make out any distinct words but the whole of it sounded rather like Scottish-flavored cursing.

Bounding out from the nearby shrubs was another puppy, solid black and pointy-eared and lacking a human holding the other end of its leash. Hart had the feeling this might be a related event.

The new dog drew closer to them. It was no larger than Mr. Pickle; regardless Hart watched it for any sign of danger. When it only gave Mr. Pickle a friendly sniff, Hart took the opportunity to pick up the leash, thinking perhaps he need not leave after all. A quick scan of the area confirmed Malcolm was nearby, seeming quite cross as he was doing a search of his own. Hart waved him over.

"Hello," he said at Malcolm's approach and passed him the leash.

"Cheers." Exasperated, Malcolm gestured to the puppy. "Dog's gonna be the end of me."

"Not a dog person?"

"No. Cats are more like it. But he's sweet, when he's not being a right pain in the arse." As if to drive the point home, the puppy nuzzled against Malcolm's leg; in response Malcolm deigned to scratch his fuzzy head.

"Par for the course," Hart commented, fighting a grin.

"You're in the same boat, eh?"

"Oh, no, no, I love dogs. I just meant, that lines up with what I've heard about Schipperkes."

"About what?"

"I think that's what he is, a Schipperke."

Malcolm shrugged. "Never heard of it."

"Oh. Well..." Hart paused for a meaningful look from the dog to Malcolm, then quirked his eyebrows. "You chose him, so obviously not."

"Go to hell."

Hart didn't hold back his smile anymore. Malcolm was tetchy, to be sure, but Hart found himself not really minding. There were, in his experience, worse things to be.

A few impatient barks from Mr. Pickle reminded Hart he wasn't out here just for his own sake. "Sorry, do you mind if we start walking? Mr. Pickle's getting restless."

"Okay," Malcolm replied, after giving Hart a blank stare. They ambled down the path, Malcolm's puppy now more or less content to accompany his owner. "You named your dog 'Mr. Pickle'?"

Hart couldn't say for certain whether a note of judgment had crept into Malcolm's voice. He opted to simply answer, "Yes."

"May I ask why?"

All right, that seemed sincere. "Because it suits him. Endearing, and whimsical."

"Hm. Fair enough."

"Well, what did you name yours?"

Malcolm sighed before answering, "You've heard it. Dog."

"You can't be serious."

"I'll be whatever I damn well please."

Hart shook his head gravely—or at least he tried. "For Christ's sake, Hamish," he ended up laughing.

Dog yipped at something only he could perceive and tried to tear after it. "Oi! Dog!" Malcolm kept a firm grip on the leash. "Not this time, ye cheeky devil."

"I could help you if you'd like. I've some experience with raising puppies," Hart said, on something like a whim. Not that he especially regretted it: though he counted on himself first and foremost, he also knew his interpersonal skills needed work if he was to be a part of Kingsman, and talking to the recruit who showed the least discomfort around him seemed a logical first step.

But he didn't expect that he would actually suggest it, and from the way Malcolm looked at him now, neither did he.

"I know what they told us... after Bryce. And if it's to save someone's life, then sure, teamwork. No shit." He slowed to a halt as he spoke, never breaking eye contact. "But we're in direct competition for a single reward. Why the hell should we help anyone else get it?"

Hart met his gaze, unwavering, their eyes about level. "Because as capable as we are alone, together we can help each other become something even greater. It will be that basis on which we're judged. And furthermore... you don't seem like a bad sort."

"Really."

"You've a chip on your shoulder so massive, I'm amazed it hasn't stunted your growth. But you're also inventive, brave, fair-minded... and, when you want to be... thoughtful." The final word was met with a scoff; still his face suggested relenting. "It would be a shame to see you sent home on account of a capricious pup."

"Okay. So you don't just see a 'bourgeois hippie Scot', do you?"

"I don't. And you don't see a confused girl doping to get ahead. Do you?"

"Not at all." He glanced at the puppies, at Hart, and nodded. "All right, Hart. Tell me about dogs."


	3. Say About It, III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter contains misgendering, some of it purposeful on my part. more on that in the end notes

_Of course she minded her parents, as any good child did. They never told her, though, when it was past her bedtime she must stay in her room and_ not _wander the mansion. And she was sneaky enough that the opportunity never came up._

 _Oh, she knew it was a disingenuous interpretation of their rules, even if she hadn't yet learned the exact words to describe it. But it was just_ fascinating _how everyone acted so differently if they thought their environs free of six-year-old girls. Her brothers were especially delightful to eavesdrop on; they would say the most colorful words..._

_Voices drifted down the hall. Mum and Dad were talking to each other, staying where they were; she lingered and strained to make out the words._

_"... perhaps we ought to bring in a governess," Mum was saying._

_"A governess!" Dad exclaimed. "In the year of our Lord, nineteen seventy-three?"_

_"Well, she clearly needs more feminine influence in her life. With three older brothers, she's picking up all sorts of unseemly habits!"_

_"I think it unfair to attribute her odd behavior to our sons."_

_"But you must admit they've_ something _to do with it."_

_"It's not as if they're doing it maliciously..."_

_She moved on from her hiding place to go spy on Leonard watching telly. If she was lucky, she could catch something with guns and fighting._

* * *

"All right, lads, try sparring with each other now." Morgana hastily added, "In pairs, that is."

"Our pick, sir?"

"Hm? Sure, your pick."

Six of the other candidates move towards each other, not for a second glancing Hart's way. The seventh, Malcolm, approached him. "Think it's you and me, Hart."

He nodded. He was only a smidgen more familiar with Malcolm than he was with the others, but it was enough to believe Malcolm would be much less of a weirdo about physical contact with Hart's body.

Plus, it seemed to make Malcolm inclined to forgive when Hart anticipated his next move and countered with more force than intended.

"Ah, god!" Malcolm cried out, knocked down to the mat.

"Bollocks!" Hart, mortified, was by him in an instant. "Sorry, sorry. Are you all right?"

"No worries. Just took me by surprise, that's all." He did appear unharmed, and unruffled.

"Here, let me help you up."

"Before they think you've killed me, eh?" he chuckled.

"Quite," Hart said, dry. He pulled Malcolm to his feet, and they got back to it.

A moment passed, neither gaining the advantage over the other. His little tumble notwithstanding, Malcolm was a highly competent fighter; he had a temper but he wasn't careless, even as he barked, "Dammit, ye holdin' back, Hart?"

"Well, I don't want to kill you."

"Pah! Barely scratched me the first time."

Again Hart saw an opportunity, catching Malcolm before he could react, and in a few sharp motions he had his opponent pinned down. He held him for a second and then, satisfied his point was made, moved off him, stating, "I'd rather take you alive."

Malcolm exhaled as Hart pulled him up again. "Well done."

Once they were standing, Morgana had come over. Attempting something like discretion, he told Malcolm, "Hamish, I know this is just practice, but you don't need to let yourself get pushed around."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Oh, Malcolm's blood was boiling; Hart could almost hear the steam whistling out his ears. "Haven't you bloody _seen_ his scores—"

Hart stepped toward them and calmly interrupted, "He'll keep that in mind, sir."

Morgana reassembled the recruits after that, resuming instruction. Malcolm could only give Hart a pained look; Hart returned a placid shrug. There were far better hills to die on. If Morgana didn't know what Hart was capable of, either he would find out if Hart was knighted, or his opinion wouldn't matter if Hart was not.

That had not, however, been the end of that conversation, as Hart found out when he exited the locker room after class and was intercepted by Malcolm, grouching before Hart could get a word in, "Hey, look, you know you could deck us all in the face and make Galahad that way, right?"

Hart blinked at him. He was waiting around for him just to say that? "Well, thank you. But you need not concern yourself over whatever Morgana might have implied."

"No one talks about my friends like that," he declared, still angry.

Hart blinked again. _Friends?_

They were friends? Allies, certainly, but... why the hell would anyone want to be _friends_ with Hart? Ordinarily he would be suspicious: in the past, his peers had tried to manipulate him in similar ways. This time, as strange as it seemed, he thought he could believe Malcolm, who Kingsman had yet to teach how not to immediately broadcast every instance of annoyance, wrath, or indignation he experienced. Yes, perhaps Hart would go along with this apparent friendship, at least for the time being.

Oblivious to any of Hart's inner turmoil, Malcolm went on ranting, "All right, so there _might_ be such a thing as 'time and place', _I suppose_. But come on! What kind of arsewipe—"

"His words mean nothing to me, Malcolm. I promise." At that, he was finally mollified, hands lowered and brow slightly smoothed. "And anyway, there's more to it than mere force."

"Of course there is. What, you thought we'd be queuing up, _waiting_ for you to deck us in the face?"

Hart scoffed, though with a small smile. Malcolm was, if nothing else, quite a character. "What I _mean_ is there's more to _Kingsman_ than force. We are training to be, first and foremost, gentlemen."

" _Gentlemen_ ," Malcolm repeated derisively. Hart's smile flickered—and Malcolm must have noticed because he was quick to clarify, "Well, it's a lot to expect from some of these knobheads, innit?" and even said, a shade abashed, "Sorry."

"It's all right," Hart replied, earnestly. "Though every man has the potential for it."

"That's proper gracious of you."

"No, it's just the truth. Being a gentleman is something you learn." Then he amended, quieter, "Okay, it's more of a... hypothesis, actually."

"You'll get there. I've seen you; you're a fast learner," Malcolm said, casually but with conviction.

Hart had his doubts. _Manners maketh man_ , they said, but he had to take it much more literally than anyone ever intended. All complicated by the fact that sociability didn't seem to come easily to him.

But he would do his best, as he ever did. And if he at last had a friend beside him, all the better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> regarding pronoun usage in this flashback: i vacillated between male and female pronouns for a long while, finally narrowly deciding on female because 1) they're what a pre-transition, pre-realizing-he's-trans harry would have used for himself at the time and 2) the scene is presented as a narrative glimpse of the past and not as present harry actually recalling anything.
> 
> that being said, a PSA: if you, dear reader, happen to be discussing a trans person's pre-transition life, please do not refer to them with their assigned-at-birth gender's pronouns. (unless they give their permission of course, which is conceivable. i haven't seen it happen yet but i don't get out much.)


	4. As We Go Along, I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter contains a not terribly detailed description of a medical injection; i also should have mentioned last chapter that pretty much every flashback scene from here on out will contain misgendering

_The policemen left the room, having been abruptly summoned elsewhere. Alone, he sat still at the table and awaited his fate with a resigned sort of indifference._

_Until he saw who his next visitor was: a woman he had seen only in passing but knew to be a high-ranking army officer. He muttered a curse and slumped in his chair._

_She merely said, "Ah, you must recognize me."_

_"I'm well fucked now, aren't I?"_

_The silence hung heavy over him as she took a seat. For an officer who had gone to the trouble of personally tracking down a soldier in civilian police custody, she seemed rather nonchalant about it all._

_"Why don't we properly introduce ourselves?" she said finally, "My name is Régine Cavendish."_

_The furrow in his brow deepened at every word. "Thought your name was... Jones, or something," he said, as if that was seriously his foremost concern._

_"Hence the introductions. And you?" When he didn't respond right away, she added with a subtle, enigmatic smile, "No one's listening in; I've made sure of it."_

_Oh, piss, oh, bollocks, this had_ nothing _to do with either the police_ or _the army. Christ almighty, just who the bloody hell did he fight in that pub? He must've thrashed seven British royals and the head of fucking MI6, and now Cavendish was here to take care of him, was that it?_

Shit.

_Well, fine. If he was about to get disappeared before he ever saw his twenty-second goddamn birthday, he would at least hold onto his dignity for as long as he could._

_"Hart. My apologies, but no one with whom I'm on speaking terms refers to me by given name... and I'm beginning to suspect you already know what it is."_

_Her smile broadened into one of transparent satisfaction. "Very well, Miss Hart." And instead of the enumeration of his crimes and the details of his imminent gruesome death that he was expecting, she spoke only of some kind of job interview._

* * *

It was the fourth instance in about twice as many minutes of rapid, echoing footfalls all but booming above him, and Hart had enough. He stuck his head out from behind the stairs. "Malcolm, would you please pick a storey and bloody stay on it?"

" _Sweet Jesus_ ," Malcolm hissed upon realizing he wasn't alone in the stairwell. He whipped around, cryptography textbooks held close, though he relaxed greatly when he noticed the other man. "The hell're you doing?" he asked, approaching close enough to catch sight of Hart holding the syringe in the small bottle. "Oh, is this where you go to take your man juice?"

"For god's sake, never again utter the phrase 'man juice'," Hart griped, flicking the syringe. "To answer your question, no, I in fact do not habitually inject testosterone under the library stairs. I hide somewhere new each time."

"Hide?" Malcolm repeated, confused. He stole a glance over his shoulder at the door, then joined Hart behind shelter and lowered his voice. "From what?"

"Everyone. Except you, I suppose."

"God in heaven, you get harassed whilst you're trying to perform a medical procedure?"

His concern seemed so genuine, Hart felt a touch guilty making him worry over so little. "It hasn't happened yet," he admitted. "Still, I'd like to do all I can to minimize the chance of a botched injection—and on that note, could you be quiet a moment?"

"Oh yeah, sure."

Malcolm settled against the wall, still cradling his books. Once the syringe was prepared, Hart pulled up a trouser leg and braced himself. Swab, pinch, jab... out. He exhaled in relief; another week's dose finished. Not that he feared needles, but if the doctors ever came up with a less-frequently invasive route of administration, it would be quite welcome.

"All good, Hart?"

"Yes. Just need another minute." He pressed some gauze to his thigh. "Um, if you have things to do..."

"Ah, nothing that can't wait," Malcolm replied with a casual shrug. "I'd like to ask you something, actually."

"What's that?"

"Your _surname's_ 'Hart', right?"

"Uh, yeah, why?"

"What's your forename?"

Hart shot him a look softer than a glare.

"I mean, you have your _own_ name, don't you?" clarified Malcolm, "Something you chose?"

"Then I wouldn't insist on going by my surname, now would I?"

"Hm. Why don't you? Have one, I mean?"

"As it turns out, naming oneself is actually quite difficult." He drew the gauze away and dressed the injection site. "Haven't you tried it? I thought you hated your name."

"I don't hate it... not in the way I think you do. It's a perfectly functional name; why should I bother picking a new one for myself? Oh!" Malcolm's face lit up with sudden inspiration. "But why don't _I_ pick one for _you_?"

Hart only slightly raised his eyebrows at Malcolm. "Interesting angle, but frankly, I'll more likely than not be dissatisfied with your name."

Undeterred, Malcolm stated, "Then I'll just pick a different one. And we can proceed in this manner till you get a name you _are_ satisfied with." He coolly regarded Hart's bewildered expression. "What?"

"I don't think you can brute-force naming a person."

He shifted his books into one arm and gestured animatedly with the other. "Sure you can! What're you talking about? There are only so many names. And we don't even have to brute-force it! You do have preferences, right?"

"Yes... I could not tell you what they are."

"That's fine; that's why we're gonna collect _data_. From data, we can find patterns and make much more well-informed name decisions. We'll just need a starting data set of... one hundred, or so."

"One... hundred."

"Oh, it won't take long. All you need to do is say yes, no, or maybe. We'll get there in no time."

Well, now was the time to stop putting off choosing a new name, it seemed. And... yes, that might do it... If Kingsman insisted on keeping a forename in his profile, then perhaps a new name to displace the old would be the ticket. "Okay, I suppose it can't hurt."

"Brilliant. Now, let me fetch a clipboard..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a really smart thing to do is wait until chapter 3 or 4 of ur story to remember, oh that's right i wanted to date the setting and age the characters, lmao. yeah we start with harry being 21 in 1988; merlin is about harry's age but i don't think that will be explicitly mentioned. hopefully it's implicit in how they treat each other as peers but if it's not then whATEVeR


	5. As We Go Along, II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> right out of the gate there's violence in this chapter. it's exactly as bad as the start of the pub fight from the first movie and also the only reason the tag says "basically no violence" and not just, "no violence"
> 
> also, if it's not yet obvious that my favorite thing to write is meandering banter between dipshit friends, it's about to be

_The glass flew from his sweat-slick fingers and shattered on the drunkard's face. Transfixed, he could only watch as the other man, who had just a second ago been standing uncomfortably close, fell over backwards with a heavy thud._

_He felt a tension in the hush that came over the pub. God knew the man deserved it for the repulsive things he had said; from the look of the other patrons, it was solely God and him who knew it._

_To his deep concern, several of them stood up, staring daggers at him. The one closest to him spat, "The fuck's your problem, lady?"_

_He, too, got up from his booth, hands raised in a conciliatory gesture. "My sincerest apologies; it was an accident—"_

_"You knocked the guv'nor out cold with a glass to the face. That wasn't no accident."_

_"Now, gentlemen, if you would simply allow me to call for medical assistance..." His voice trailed off, having done nothing in the slightest to dissuade their advance. He sighed, "Or... are we going to_ fight _?"_

_Well, then. This certainly was some shit he shouldn't have started. But something (probably his blood alcohol content) was telling him, very insistently, to finish it._

_He glanced about him, taking stock of the situation in an instant: seven men, tough but none larger than himself; all apparently unarmed save for one in the back grasping the handle of a knife; the nearest man seeming ready to charge. Right, first things first._

_The man did lunge; deftly he sidestepped and elbowed him, his face slamming on the edge of the table—at which point all hell broke loose._

* * *

"Get your arse dressed already." Malcolm threw the jumpsuit onto Hart's prone figure, which grunted and rolled over in response. "Or are you gonna run around outside in your skivvies?"

Hart grimaced, not yet fully in the waking world. "Hamish?" he slurred, blinking at the lights overhead.

"Aye?"

"Do I look like a lesbian?"

"What? No. Get up or I'll chuck your boots at you too."

Lying still, Hart insisted, "I'm not a lesbian. I'm a gay man."

Malcolm replied, now gentler, "I know." He approached Hart's bunk, face tinged with sympathy, and held out a hand. "Come on, a run in the drizzle will wake you right up."

Such was how they spent most of their time together in recent days. Idle chatter as they studied, name suggestions during mealtimes, friendly teasing while training. Leisure time was precious scarce as the selection program ramped up; Hart preferred to spend it alone, and Malcolm would usually sneak off to further his own inscrutable designs.

(Despite being Malcolm's closest friend at Kingsman, Hart did not have the first clue on what he might be doing. Possibly it had something to do with him mysteriously knowing the codes to open various keypad-secured doors around HQ, but that was pure speculation. Regardless, Kingsman would certainly put a stop to it if it was anything to be worried about, so Hart didn't dwell on it much.)

That morning, the drizzle was chilly as they ran, their dogs beside them, displeased but dutiful. And once they were far enough out that no one would tell him to shut the hell up, Malcolm started to sing.

"[Almost heaven,](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1vrEljMfXYo) West Virginia, Blue Ridge Mountains, Shenandoah River... / Life is old there, older than the trees, younger than the mountains, blowing like a breeze..."

Obviously this was demanding of him more breath than he was comfortable expending. Nonetheless he carried on, putting his whole heart into the song even as his lungs were surely burning.

"... I should have been home yesterday..." A deep breath, and he wailed into the mist, "Yesterday...!"

He must love this song, it occurred to Hart. How long they had been friends, and Hart never would have imagined that Malcolm loved such a thing.

"Take me home, now, country roads! / Take me home, now, country roads...!" he finished, triumphant.

His final notes hung in the ensuing silence as he caught his breath.

"Bravo," Hart said eventually. "Truly the American Dream knows no borders."

"Oi, you know I lived there for five years."

"You were in bloody California."

"Not the _entire_ time, okay? I _have_ been to West Virginia."

"Is that so?"

"Yes."

"How was it?"

"... Nice."

"'Nice'," Hart repeated in disbelief.

"Yes," replied Malcolm, defensive.

"That's your glowing recommendation? Of 'almost heaven'?"

"I only stayed for two days!"

"For two—... Your thirty-hour bloody layover doesn't count!"

" _Oh my god_ , it was for a _conference_! Give me a _fuckin' break_ , Hart!"

Hart's stride was broken by a fit of laughter. Malcolm hung back, scrunching his face at his friend in a display of profound exasperation, which only made Hart laugh even more.

"Are you done?" Malcolm grunted when Hart quieted down.

Hart wiped the tears from his eyes and straightened up. Happily, he remarked, "You're such a berk."

"I'm not the one who was laughing my dumb arse off over something that wasn't even funny."

"Oh, it was _very_ funny," he corrected, resuming his run.

Malcolm huffed and quickly matched his pace. "Anyway, it's your turn."

"My turn to what?"

"Sing."

Hart would perhaps have politely refused if a song hadn't come to mind right away. He had wanted to hear it since he'd left behind all his records a couple years ago; singing it was perhaps the next best thing.

"[Home...](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fsccjsW8bSY) is where I want to be / Pick me up and turn me 'round," he sang, softer than Malcolm had, but with no less feeling, "I feel numb—born with a weak heart / I guess I must be having fun..."

He sang of something that he honestly knew nothing of; the thought of it was oddly comforting all the same. To hear those words, it wasn't so hard to believe that he would one day know a sense of belonging. 

"... I'm just an animal, looking for a home, and / Share the same space for a minute or two / And you love me till my heart stops / Love me till I'm dead..."

At the end of the song, he found himself regretting this choice: Malcolm must have questions for him, and he had no desire to voice the answers to another actual human being. The fact of the matter was, in the present day there was no one waiting to see him again, no one waiting for Mr. Hart. There wasn't even a home to which he could return.

As luck would have it, Malcolm's attention was abruptly diverted. Dog, apparently fed up with running around in the rain, sat down and refused to move, though Malcolm was able to coax him into a relaxed walk. Pleasantly surprised, and thankful for the distraction, Hart said, "You're getting on better with Dog these days."

"Well, I'd better be. Or else I'd be having a word with you about your shite teaching."

"Fair enough. But if I'm not mistaken... you're getting on better with everyone now, aren't you?"

"I'm gonna let you in on the secret of a lifetime, all right?"

"All right."

"I'm _not_ really that irritable of a person."

In a very deliberate movement, Hart brought his hand in front of his mouth. "No! You, Hamish Greig Malcolm, with whom this whole time I've been having exceptionally friendly conversations?"

"Oh, shut up. You know what I mean!"

"Sorry, sorry," he said cheerily. "So, what's... what used to be your beef?"

"I mean, think about it. Five years at Caltech, well on my way to my first doctorate, until suddenly, with a mere day's notice I was sent off to England. And as if that weren't _bad enough_ —"

"Hey, now."

"Yeah, full offense, Hart. Anyway, I had to leave behind my friends, my reputation—do you know how long it took for everyone to stop calling me 'Scottish Kid'?"

"Oh, _no_ , really?"

"No. They actually called me—" he affected an American accent to say, "—'Scoddish Kid'." After Hart finished giggling, Malcolm went on, "What about you?"

"What about me?"

"I remember you also weren't quite thrilled to be here at first." Which was a generous way of describing it. "Were you in the same boat?"

"Well, I attended Cambridge instead of Caltech, but yes, everything else went exactly the same, including the part about Scottish Kid."

" _God_ , fuck off. Oh my god. What is the matter with you today? Why don't you just answer the damn question."

Hart laughed once more at Malcolm's exaggerated reaction; the smile that lingered afterwards had to be affected. "I mean, I wasn't in school at the time..."

"No?"

"I was in the army."

"Oh. You don't say. The army? How did that happen?"

He stared into the distance, at the mansion ahead. "Well... it hardly matters now, does it?"

"Doesn't it? That's where Kingsman found you."

"You would _think_ so," said Hart, brightening at the chance to redirect the conversation. "Oh, you'll never guess how they really found me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> merlin did not introduce himself with his full name because no one has ever called him Greig. he considers his middle name to be window dressing for the rest of his name. it's certainly not because i didn't think to give him a middle name until now


	6. As We Go Along, III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apologies to readers with the names presented in this chapter; harry and merlin's opinions are not my own

Malcolm held up his clipboard and tapped it meaningfully. "I'm ready to present my preliminary analysis."

Hart spared him a glance past the sandwich in his hands. "By all means, continue," he said, his changing voice not fully settled in his throat.

"The clearest trend is that you prefer shorter names. One- and two-syllable names are much less likely to get rejected, whereas the number of longer names you've tentatively approved can be counted on one hand. Now, besides that, I'll unfortunately have to speculate more than I'd like: as it turns out, names and one's perceptions of them can vary in enough ways that... 100 is actually a pretty small sample size for this."

Overall, it seemed that Hart wanted a friendly name, Malcolm explained while Hart tore into his sandwich. Something light and quick in its syllables, yet unambiguously masculine. Nothing too whimsical, of course, but certainly nothing to any degree severe or imperious. Still, a few names indicated that he wouldn't mind something a bit stately, too.

"This isn't to say that 'stately' and 'light' are mutually exclusive concepts," said Malcolm, Hart listening attentively and not thinking _too_ much about how he could go for a second sandwich, "just that it's a lot to pack into one or two syllables. But we'll do what we can, won't we?"

It all sounded quite plausible to Hart. Despite that social interaction more often than not caused him a great deal of stress, he truly did want to be more... approachable. ("Friendly" was, he thought, a bridge too far for him. But who knows? Maybe one day, it wouldn't be.)

Malcolm set down the clipboard. "Anyway, what do you think? Anything you wanna add?"

"I think I should say that nicknames are a factor."

"Oh. Nicknames. Shit, how did I not think of that?"

"I mean, I don't necessarily want to go by a nickname. It's just... the fact that they exist. Know what I mean? Like, 'James' is okay, except the mere thought of being called 'Jimmy'..." Hart pulled a face and shook his head.

" _God_ , tell me about it. Okay..." Clipboard back in his hands, Malcolm flipped through more pages than Hart realized had been there. "I suppose I'd better make a note of that." His eyes flicked to the dining hall clock. "It'd have to be over dinner, I think."

"Sure." Suddenly curious, Hart pointed to the clipboard. "May I see that for a second?"

Malcolm looked at him as though he might refuse, but he handed it over without a word.

His findings were written on the topmost pages, a more verbose version of what he already explained. Hart took a moment to marvel at the graphs, beautifully freehanded.

Under those was scratch paper for his calculations and then pages of tables, meticulous records of Malcolm's suggestions and Hart's responses—along with, for each and every name, number of syllables, IPA pronunciation, etymology, notable namesakes, additional notes...

_Evan — Thoughtful "oh" preceded response._

_Graham — Amenable maybe._

_Edward — Response: "no"; inflection: "hell no"._

_Luke — Has never met a Luke he liked._

_Colin — Hard maybe._

Amazed, Hart glanced up at his friend, who was currently regarding him with veiled impatience, and said, "This... These are words I never thought I'd say, but... this is magnificently organized data. I don't think I'd trust anyone else with naming me."

"Thanks," Malcolm said simply, though a tiny smile softened his expression.

The final pages were more scratch paper, this time for writing out full names. Hart couldn't help but notice several names, some struck through, that he had absolutely no recollection of Malcolm proposing. "Some of these names haven't come up, have they?"

"Hm? Oh, those weren't worth mentioning. Mostly 'cause they clashed with your surname. Hey, have you considered changing your surname, too?"

"God, no. Just getting _one_ name sorted is doing my head in."

Malcolm shrugged without protest. "Fair enough."

"Do you really think these names don't work?"

Hart's eyes followed the clipboard as Malcolm slid it out of his hands and had a look at it himself. "Of course they don't bloody work! Like, 'Martin Hart'? Seriously?!"

"Well, when you say it like that..." Hart admitted with a chuckle.

"'Harry Hart'—could there _be_ a more jarring divide between phonetics and orthography?"

"Harry...?" he repeated thoughtfully.

Malcolm seemed to take no notice; he continued, "And God forbid an _American_ should utter it! And 'Mark Hart'? What a disaster! Complete consonantal discord!"

Hart thought of his brother Mark, who could very reasonably be described as a disaster, and laughed.

"What?"

"Oh—nothing. So," Hart said quickly, "what's next?"

"Well, more of the same, except now that I've a better idea of what you like, my suggestions will be more refined. Also, if you like, you can take a maybe and give it a trial run. You know, have me use it, and you use it too, and see how it makes you feel. What do you think?"

"Not a bad idea. It's just... I don't know which I'd try first." Though there were maybes he preferred over others, not one of them had really appealed to him that much.

"Okay, understandable. But think it over, aye?"

"Well... I don't suppose I could hold onto the data? For later reference?"

Again Malcolm regarded him with more than a little uncertainty; again he surprised him by acceding. "I'll make a copy for you; how does that sound?"

"That'd be great," said Hart, pleased, before he turned a shade hesitant. "Um... Thank you. For helping me with this. You've really, you know, put a lot of effort into this."

"Ah, don't even mention it. I get to help a friend, crunch some data, be an armchair linguist." Malcolm flashed a grin. "What more could I ask for?"


End file.
